


(i don't care) if heaven won't take me back

by freakazoid



Category: DCU (Comics), Green Lantern - All Media Types
Genre: 90s comics 5ever, Angst, Evil Power Couple, Hal Jordan is Parallax, M/M, Rationalization, hal jordan is sad unsurprisingly, i truly am a literary genius, the sun as a metaphor AND as foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakazoid/pseuds/freakazoid
Summary: The man who is not Hal Jordan is alone.





	(i don't care) if heaven won't take me back

**Author's Note:**

> The relevant part: Hal Jordan, after Coast City was destroyed by Mongul, killed Mongul in a fit of rage and tried to recreate Coast City with his ring. The Guardians wouldn't let him do this, so he went to them (fighting off plenty of lanterns on the way) and consumed the entire central power battery into himself, destroying the Lantern Corps and the Guardians, killing Sinestro and Kilowog. Then he punched out Superman. He calls himself Parallax and spends a lot of time sitting around on planets being sad and pretty unstable and also I would die for him thank you.

            The star casts its heat into the breathless cold of space, bringing its dull light to the planets that surround it. Millions of years ago it was born in a cacophony of white light, and for millions after that it burned in brilliant golden glory. Now, it is old and red, simmering low in the emptiness. As the star burns its last reserves of fuel, the immense pressure of its core collapses. In a single second it heats to immeasurable temperatures, exploding outwards in color and warmth and violence. The planets circling the star that has given them life for so long disintegrate into its glory, life turned to stardust in an instant—

            The star stops, frozen in the moment of its death, glowing brighter than a thousand suns.

            A being who is not Hal Jordan stands in the midst of the calamity, pale face cast in bright red at billions of degrees hotter than any man should be able to survive—but he is not a man.

            He turns his hand. The disintegrated dust from the explosion reforms into the barren moon beneath his feet. Heat retreats across the miles, cools into the core of a star. Death becomes life, planets spinning back into orbit as if they had never left. A galaxy reasserts its existence.

            Hal sits on the cold ground, the light inside him that has been burning ever since he stole it away from the Guardians keeping him warm. The planets move slowly under a red sun, poised once again before disaster. It’s a system that could almost be his own, the red planet nearest the sun giving birth to a race a of shapeshifters, the green almost-blue planet bringing homo sapiens to life.

            Hal closes his eyes, seeing only bright light behind them. _Don’t think about Earth._

            This system has no true name, not yet, known only by an eight-digit designation code by the Corps that Hal can no longer access—and, for that matter, no longer exists. _My doing._ The Corps are gone, as likely to return to the galaxy as Hal is to Earth.

            He stares at the planets, affixed in the sky above him in their cosmic view, an inexorable sense of loneliness threading its way through his consciousness.

            And then, slowly, it dawns on him that he is not alone.

            It’s not sinister, really, it’s the feeling of sitting down with a friend, enjoying the companionship of existing in the same place at the same time with someone you trust. He’s slowly aware of the presence of someone next to him, sitting just out of his periphery. He turns his head, and there is his oldest, worst friend, looking significantly greener and more alive than Hal is used to.

            “You could have saved them, you know,” says Thaal Sinestro, staring up into the sky.

            “Which ‘them’?” Hal asks.

            “The people in the galaxy around the star that’s still going to explode, in a few more minutes.”

            Hal’s lips twist. “What did they do to _deserve_ it?”

            “Nothing,” Sinestro replies. “Though typically, one saves them anyways.”

            Hal lets out a _hn_ sound. “And then they get saved and other people don’t. Decisions, decisions.”

            “It doesn’t always work that way.”

            “Well, you never know _how_ it works until it’s too late,” Hal sneers. “Until you come home to—well . . .” he trails into silence, into a sigh. The sun shines on the pale rock, casting red hewn shadows on the stone. The glowing visage of Sinestro casts green light on everything around it. Silence continues for several seconds, and then—

            “Really, Jordan, it’s natural to feel affection for one’s home planet. I’ve always missed Korugar terribly,” Sinestro says.

            “Don’t call me that,” Hal snaps.

            “What, ‘Jordan’? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “I’m not Hal Jordan anymore. Haven’t been for—a long time. Besides,” Hal adds halfheartedly, “not everyone is born with a naturally intimidating surname.”

            Sinestro raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

            “Well, yeah,” Hal says. “You know—sinister, Sinestro.” At the other’s bemused look, he adds, “it makes sense in English.”

            “Hmm. How convenient for me.”

            “Yeah. It is.”

            “So,” Sinestro says, “do you wish to have an intimidating name in order to inspire fear?”

            “No!” Hal insists. “It’s not . . . not like that. Not like you. I just.” He sighs. “I can never go back. I’m not who I was. For better or worse.”

            “Not like _me_?” Sinestro sounds almost offended.

            Hal stares at him. “Yeah. I’m not like you.”

            “Are you _sure_?” Sinestro asks.

            Hal’s face turns stormy. “I am _nothing_ like you,” he hisses. “I _killed_ you.”

            “I thought you didn’t kill,” Sinestro taunts.

            “I didn’t. But I do _now_. For a _good cause_.”

            “I seek to bring order and justice to the universe,” Sinestro says incredulously. “Is that not a _good cause_?”

            “You’re a _despot_!” Hal is on his feet now, towering over the construct. “I haven’t descended into—into _fascism_.”

            “You’re no spotless lily,” Sinestro sneers. He stands up to face Hal, artificially green eyes glaring up at him.

            “I want to make the world better! Without despotism!”

            “Where it isn’t _necessary_ to save people from themselves, you mean.”

            “Despotism is _never_ necessary!”

            “If _I_ were ruling Earth, your Coast City—”

            Hal’s fist connects with Sinestro’s face with a satisfying _crack_. Sinestro stumbles backwards clutching his nose, which leaks green blood. “That _hurt_!” he says incredulously.

            “Don’t you _dare_ talk about Coast City,” Hal snarls, low and dangerous. “If I wasn’t away saving planets of people I didn’t even know the name of from _you_ —”

            “I didn’t _make_ you stop me,” Sinestro replies, now safely out of range of Hal’s glowing fists. “If you remember correctly, that was the Guardians.”

            Hal’s eyes smolder, but he lowers his hands. “Yes,” he admits hollowly. “I suppose it was.”

            “Good riddance,” Sinestro says, the picture of smugness.

            “Yes,” Hal echoes. “Good riddance.”

            “So, what do you plan to do with all this power?” Sinestro asks.

            “Why do you care?”

            The construct gestures to his body. “Well, it’s not like I can go around doing anything myself. That’s your job.”

            Hal doesn’t answer, silence stretching on. He sits down again, stares up at the red sun, suspended in the sky so far above them. “And what if I just stay right here? Just sit on this goddamn rock until I . . .” He sighs.

            Sinestro licks his lips pensively. “We’re friends, Jordan. I know you better than that.”

            “Were we?” Hal snaps, turning to stare at him. “Were we really? Or was I just another subordinate you fucked?”

            “First of all, you were the _only_ subordinate I fucked. Secondly . . .”  Sinestro cocks his head. “We were always friends, Jordan. Right up until you snapped my neck. That’s why I know the last thing you’d _ever_ do is give up running around doing whatever you’re convinced is best.”

            “I’m not a hero anymore,” Hal says helplessly. “I can’t—go back to that. I wish . . . God, I wish I could.”

            “And why not?”

            Hal’s face twists with loathing. “I couldn’t even protect my own _home_! What kind of _hero_ —what kind of _person_. . .”

            “I lost my home as well,” Sinestro says. “Giving up isn’t like you.”

            “I haven’t _given up_ ,” Hal snaps. “I just—I don’t . . . what am I supposed to _do_? How am I supposed to—to make things _right_ when people insist on trying to fight me?” Green gloved fingers form a fist.

 “People never do want what’s right for them,” Sinestro says ruefully.

            Hal stares at the sky. “I . . . no, I suppose not.”

            “But you have to do it anyways.”

            “Even when it’s difficult,” Hal agrees. “Even when you’re doing it alone.”

            “They never listen, do they?” Sinestro says with a sour laugh.

             “They don’t even _try_ ,” Hal sneers. “Even if they’re supposed to be your _friends_. I just wanted to make things _right_ , is that so wrong?”

            “There is no room for heroism in that path,” Sinestro says, and his eyes are hard.

            Something hitches inside Hal. “I know that now.”

            “It is not a pleasant lesson to learn,” Sinestro says.

            “But they don’t _understand_ ,” Hal says bitterly. “They won’t until it’s too late. Just like _me_.”

            A pause. There is an almost imperceptible weight on his shoulder, the heat of a hand against him.

            “I would’ve understood,” Sinestro says softly.

            “I know,” Hal replies.

            _And that’s the worst part._

The star implodes once again, the scouring heat tearing its way across the lightyears. The planets in the system are vaporized, spilling dust into the endless waste. Pressure exerts so much force on the core of what used to be the star that it _tears_ through space and time. The absence of anything at all pulls on everything around it, forcing debris inexorably into a black hole.

            Parallax stands, scoured by the heat of the explosion, once again without company—if he had ever really had it.

**Author's Note:**

> these guys play off each other so well ....  
> the title comes from the song Angel With a Shotgun by The Cab


End file.
